Game On

I can't cry lately, too busy to be exposed to what triggers tears.  Much to feel fortunate for, however empty at the moment.  Not having to leave the house every day is one small blessing.  It's taken a long time to get here.

A book, more than one, sits in its most raw form tucked away in a bag, awaiting being united with its illustrator; at least one for children, more for the older ones.

Now, a vision lies in wait as well, more brushstrokes to the picture every day, until it becomes something others can see.

'Necessity is the mother of invention' applies.  'Don't try this at home', is what I may tell an audience someday, after yet another season's 'adventure'.

To care about what anyone else thinks would only slow the process; this is for a child, always has been.  What they choose to do when the painting is complete is up to them.  The investment has been made; the time has been put in.  The garden has been watered.  Now it's time to go over the fence until it's harvest time, coming back to pull weeds a few times in the interim, letting the rabbits graze a little; there's enough to go around.

Age

Was sincerely attempting to write last night and the internet didn't want to work.  Two major storms followed (only a couple of yard ornaments knocked over that were easily put back with nothing broken).  In the past I've gone out for the specific reason to write 'on time'.  Last night, 'the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak'; couldn't fathom going out 'just' to write.  It's age, or aging, or a combination of things too personal to go into now. 

This entry was going to be Books, Part II.  It's a month later and still not everything is in its place.  Many of the shelves that had seen their last days were left behind, not worth bringing along due to wear and tear, and there was no space for them.  I kept one, in my son's room.  He was just about a year old when I brought them into our first home together, one at a time, walking fifteen blocks from the closeout store where they were.  A long box in one hand, my bag on the other shoulder, and my son in a front pack, facing forward, for a total of six times.  He was between walking and crawling; the babysitter saw his first steps. 

I'll never forget when I unpacked the shelves he helped me put them in place by patting them with his little hands the flat part of the shelf so the ends would go all the way into the end grooves or spaces.  Every time the shelves were transported and set up again, the memory returned.  He had watched me from the higher shelves how it was done, so by the time we were down to his level he made sure the bottom shelves were in place as they should be himself. 

He was to be here almost two weeks ago.  We're still waiting.  It's been four months.  The massive library for an apartment that took up all of the six shelf units is now essentially 'shelfless'.  I'm on my way to the first donation dropoff with ones I know will be of use to someone else well before I'll ever get to the utilization of their content. 

My son noticed my lifestyle didn't match the titles awhile ago.  When I was much younger, maybe.  Now there is too much to do that tiny crafting tasks do not seem remotely part of the picture, even while recovering from an illness, in the remaining years of my life, which could only be half over.  With what I've experienced the first half century the world needs more than making jewelry with seed beads, however beautiful.  It's for someone, just not me. 

Beauty has been redefined of late: from the calming effect of feeling the weight of beads in the process of creating adornment, to watching small hands help finish setting up a new bookshelf.  There is no comparison.  Nothing compares.

Spin

One of those words than can be taken more than one way. The first that comes to mind is one that hits home in a way that ignites a whole bunch of trauma triggers, because spin is what affects decisions that get written based on stories and not fact. It's all in how you say it, a lot like marketing. Really big and business as usual in politics, as well as mainstream media. It's really what you're not hearing about that all the noise is an effort to drown out: the cries of children, and animals too for that matter. Other animals; we are as well, good and bad. To call someone an animal also has a negative connotation, though for some humans a lot of animals are much more diginified and deserving of so much more. The link we are not yet recognizing in this country and others is the treatment of children and any other member of a household that's not the 'head of household': a whole big constitutional conversation we don't have room for right here, right now.

At the root of a lot of what's going on now is a conversation about equality. It shakes up the tax structure to make everyone equal, as the female supreme court justice said another way in the last day or two. The pope wants both genders paid the same too. After all this time, why are we not? And why have we allowed it so long? To empower the more gentle gender would definitely reduce violence. Violence is a tool of power, that our tax dollars pay for, without our consent, to harm children, and other household members, treated in the practice of law as property. We've tolerated it because the real stories and implications have been spun over so that we accept them, to even be entertained by the fallout, the consequences falling on the vulnerable and silent. No one hears the tears, they fall nonetheless. The awakening is inevitable, yet how many more will suffer before the tide turns?

Under Cover: Under Siege

Not the first time; hopefully nearly the last, though I'm not counting on it. Seems it comes with the territory of making big changes. There are always those one leaves behind in order to meet the next group of allies. Teams run most efficiently with all talents maximized, not exploited.

Really hate engaging in playing games, yet that's what it is to others. Unfortunately, it's a survival skill to get past the gauntlet into the light, to learn and so that others can as well, the ones that will carry the torch for some sort of positive progress, as opposed to the opposite.

The interesting thing is the other players are very good at convincing others they represent the good guys, when they only represent themselves and the good guys don't know who they are, or avoid them completely, for good reason, yet the masses fall for simply hearing them talk the talk, when those who know them know it's only talk, to shroud extreme dishonesty and cunning manipulation, good enough to fool most, which has nothing to do with intelligence or education.

It takes a critical thinker to discern what's being said over what's being done, not accepting anything at face value or as related, hearing what's not being said and seeking positive results. Below the surface is the sad reality, an incubator of toxicity that can be dangerous if tolerated for any significant duration. Things are not as they seem or as told, though it's human nature to simply listen and accept, without realizing there's another perspective entirely. And another reality.

Mindset

Anything is possible. Things can turn on a dime, for the better. Snow on a hill, not forever. The sound of a child's voice, and an exotic bird, echo through the day until a connection is made, the same day. Speed, when everything is in order. It just happens. After so many years. Wondering how people my age got started, to become part of the 1%, the part with a conscience, not from the wrong more destructive party. They're not all bad, some are self made, and want to give back. There's a venue for that. And endless possibilities. Build it until it's self sustaining, and collect the residuals. One thing at a time.

Beautiful child, so wise. Beautiful bird, whose call was heard twice in the same day, not the same one, the same call. One like that needs not only their own room. They need their own house. It's a beautiful exotic sound, though rather loud. Not everyone would like it. It's the sound of a faraway place, warm, tropical, and peaceful, where the call pierces the silence to alert the presence of life.

To be on the other side of the world in one day, not so hard now. Must be private for the pets. The last trip before settling into the final transition, to start new, again.

Upside, A Day Late

Again, fatigue and overwhelm, again. Now I know how the survivors of Hurricane Katrina felt, only moreso. One of the ones that Hurricane Sandy continues to impact. There are moments of quiet reflection where it's a fight to stave off intrusive thoughts, as worrying accomplishes nothing. The sun coming in the window, a pet wanting attention, care and feeding.

Moments observed in solitude that actually were meant to be shared, with a child, with an offspring. The pets are mostly theirs. Not one of those instances where the parent takes over care because the child isn't. The child isn't able to from distance; would if he could. So caring for the animals and being present is caring for him. He will take over when he can. Much groundwork has been done for him he's not aware of yet, though he may appreciate the knowledge once he's independent.

There are insufficient outlets for expression with existing demands: storm recovery, not yet settled, work, and not least of all parenthood: the priority. Thus late again, for one. Postcards every day, sometimes four to six at a time, one for every calendar day; poor compensation for the distance, though may be helpful at some point. He knows there are copies, for a time in the future that can't be determined right now.

Only in a winter climate to do what was recommended "by law". Found out too late it was a 'relative term'. It's cold, and not being so vibrantly young as before has its limitations in response to the weather. Will not be spending final years here, and the thought of moving again even once is exhausting, though it's absolutely necessary. The plan has to change to work in the pets, and health maintenance, for all concerned.

The upside is staying in touch, with profound limitations, helping others when possible, and moments of quiet and peace, regardless of how few, for now.

Writing

The debate of the year will be using what's already written or starting over. There's been more than enough sent to many to compile volumes already, and this year there are the postcards that are the personal private property of a very special person. Maybe that's another book for another time. I can see it as written for children with illustrations.

How can I be an optimist with all that I've experienced so far and what may be coming? That someone always has it worse has been little consolation. I am an optimist, for those who don't know, cursed or blessed with a face that frowns when there's no feeling at all. Straight faced for us looks like sad, when it really isn't. And smiling is only most helpful with children. At this age, that's with whom it works best.

It's not that I expect or hope to see the good in people. It's the hope and expectation that the world will get better, one small act at a time. That those who harm others will be held accountable and become outnumbered and deincentivized from all that created so many problems. People are not property, or for sale, yet so many have managed to get around it at the expense of others. Of others' innocence, time, health, energy, and resources. It's not why we came here.

We are the third world country of more civilized planets. There is no danger we will be visited by aliens. There's nothing to learn from a planet that obviously even from space appears to be bent on destroying itself. Cruising by in a 'flying saucer' would have them move on to another sphere that creates rather than destroys its own.

Remaining hopes include a home where children can play and feel secure with all upheavals gone, health, energy, and the ability to see through plans long delayed, as well as the happiness and encouragement of one young man, that he will find his calling and be able to see it through for generations that follow.

Postcards

Since sometime in September. Daily. Including while together over the Thanksgiving holiday, for the first time since August. He said he wanted postcards, not letters, though the postage is the same, with the exception of the ones the post office sells. On postcards, there can be no secrets, or interrogations. Even the postman or postpersons can see.

Catching up from seeing him over the holiday, so am continuing to write every day, as he had asked if I would on the days we were together as well, as if written on those days, talking about what happened then. It's all important, we both need to remember.

No time for real conversation with each other, or other family for that matter. Everything was on a schedule. Watching TV together is something many take for granted. For us it was special. Shopping, on the worst such days of the year, with unusual crowds compared to any other time. Only because he asked: definitely not something I would do alone. Not to mention owning multiple pets, that he had to break to me one could not go back with him as he had wanted. His first and only special one that he truly loved. She seemed sad not to be able to stay with him. Lots of effort to get them all packed into a car for a very long trip. It took all day before leaving that evening, to drive through the night.

Pouring rain all through Virginia and North Carolina, in the dark. It wasn't so cold that having the car turned off while napping so as not to fall asleep at the wheel made it uncomfortable without heat, and the rain continuing to fall helped a little. Which wasn't the same for the trip back. Ice was coming down in Delaware and exhaustion created a need for seeking out every other rest area.

Seemed like it was all nerves and adrenaline just to get on the road to begin with, anticipated and planned for weeks; last minute details demanding and tiring as well.

It was all worth it to see him jump out from behind the tropical landscaping to flag down the car, letting me know I'd found the place, followed by his grandmother, my mother, awaiting the arrival. It was almost a 'normal' holiday, for the first time in too long.

Still I write, like breathing, instead of talking, two at a time, sometimes from me, sometimes from the pets: hybrids of their points of view. All from me might be boring after awhile; from a pet can keep it interesting.

When next to know soon; whenever it is, it's still too long, and not right. Will keep the cards going as long as it takes, because he wanted them to keep coming.

Anniversary

Fifteen years ago today, on an unseasonably warm all hallow's eve, it came out that the love of my life was not the person sitting across from me. A couple of days later, I would be given a first clue as to why. However, I would remain unenlightened for some time to come. "How could I be so blind?" For one thing, infatuation has a way of doing that. For another, not unlike many women, whatever flaws I was not consciously aware of were thought of as something that could be 'overcome'. It was an illusion, as much as the individual I was speaking to was as much a figment of my imagination as the stranger they would become. 'Stranger' would be putting it politely. It was perhaps my first lesson that passion when felt is not reciprocated. Nor is the capacity to understand another something others can do. It would be years too late to undo what I wished I had from the reaction: one that has exponentially snowballed to this day, taking with it one human life so far, with at least one attempt to take another before that, or the suggestion was there. One that someone else in the past had acted on, at their request. A life cut short, simply by asking someone as infatuated or more. What really happened I'll never know; I was only given their version. There is no doubt another side to the story. That a life ended by their decision is a part that's true, twice now. One unborn, another cut off from their family, no longer able to breathe, or get to know the next generation they brought joy to.

Politicians

I actually respond to emails from pols, with little response. If you want me to donate money, with a minimum of $3, then respond to an email. What if I actually have something to say in response to the issues you're communicating? The message is clear: either give money or not; we're not interested in your input. We only want your money. I've entered for the trips to meet the president, too. Nothing. But we vote, and speak to the local pols, who humor us with results few and far between. We are to be considered lucky to get an answer. I hate to admit I'm tired and burned out by all of it. Why bother? Because some voice is better than none at all. It's not about me, it's about every other voiceless individual I can only help in limited ways, if then. I have to choose loyalties; there's only one of me.